


A Man Can't Have Any Peace

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, pre-Mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 20:57:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2039880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade has a rare day off and it doesn't go quite to plan.  Not that that's always a bad thing...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man Can't Have Any Peace

One nice bottle of respectable… semi-respectable… lager, two feet on the sofa, three containers of respectable… cheaply respectable… Thai and a four-star match on the telly in the palatial Lestrade residence. If ever there was a perfect off day, he hadn’t known it.  At least in past thirty or forty millennia since he’d actually had another one.

_Ringtone.  Not work.  Is John.  Safe to Answer._

      “To what do I owe the pleasure, John?”

      “I’M GOING TO KILL HIM!”

      “Come again?”

      “He is as dead as a fucking dead person can be!”

      “Are you talking about Dracula?  Damned vampires bothering you again?”

      “Shut it!  My flat is on fire and you’re making jokes!”

      “WHAT!”

      “FIRE!  Great big ball of blue fire all over the table!”

      “ _Blue_ fire?”

      “YES!”

      “Well… put it out?”

      “I tried!  The fire extinguisher won’t work, water won’t work, hitting it with a blanket won’t work!  It just sits there and burns at me!”

      “John… how long has this been going on?”

      “An hour!”

      “Your table’s been on fire for an hour?”

      “Yes!”

      “And it’s still a table?”

      “Why are you being stubborn?”

      “Me?  The table is the stubborn one if it’s been blazing away for an hour and still making the side proud.”

      “What side?”

      “The… furniture side.  Why are you calling me, anyway?”

      “Because.”

      “Are you drunk?”

      “NO!  My flat is on fire and my flatmate thinks it’s science.”

      “Fire is sort of sciency, I suppose.”

      “SHUT IT!”

      “You were having sex on the table and things got a little too hot, didn’t they?”

      “I am going to murder you, right after I murder Sherlock.”

      “That’s good.  Gives me time to finish my dinner.  Which I’m getting back to right now.”

      “NO!  What do I do about the blue, refuses-to-die fire?”

      “Call an exorcist.  Bye, John.”

Not a relationship counselor, thank you very much.  Or a fire fighter.  Silly John, trying to make his off day all about big blue flame balls, when the last thing he wanted to think about was blue balls of any shape or form.  Especially those that were _his_ shape and form and that was officially quite enough of that.  Lovely Thai… doesn’t care if you’re eating it alone…

__________

_Ringtone.  Not work.  Not John.  Sherlock.  Not Safe to Answer, but Probably Funny._

      “Sherlock, you arsonist!  How are you?”

      “You have spoken with John.”

      “I have.”

      “Is he still hysterical?”

      “He is.”

      “Did you control his raging lunacy so I might return home?”

      “Nope.  It’s still raging away, sort of like your magical campfire.”

      “Then how am I to return to the flat?”

      “Can you turn yourself invisible?”

      “Your attempt at humor is supremely unhelpful.”

      “It’s helping _me_ , so I’m content.”

      “I WANT TO GO HOME!”

      “Then go home.”

      “John will assassinate me.  He was quite emphatic about that.”

      “Want to borrow my vest?”

      “He would simply shoot me in the head.  Or the leg, to prolong my suffering.”

      “Yeah, he’s vindictive like that.  Especially when he’s got ghostly blue flames haunting him.  I told him to find a priest, but his raging lunacy was a little loud at that point and I don’t think he heard me.”

      “I am turning towards your flat.”

      “Nope.  You work this out with John and don’t even consider hiding over here.  If I see you anywhere in the area, I’ll have you picked up and put on a community service assignment cleaning cages at an animal shelter.”

      “I don’t want to do that.”

      “Then go home and fix things with John.  Don’t call here again, either, or you’re going to be best friends with Mrs. Mittens and Captain McWoofersons.”

      “Animals are not awarded rank in military service.”

      “Neither is my Thai, but it’s Major-ly good.”

      “You are a deplorable friend.”

      “Goodbye, Sherlock.”

And was that his side scoring a goal?  Oh yes, today was getting better and better.

__________

_Ringtone.  Not work.  Not John.  Not Sherlock.  Safe to Answer._

      “Hello?”

      “Ah, Detective Inspector.  I trust I find you well.”

      “Who… oh!  Mr. Holmes.  Yes, sir.  Enjoying a good match and a good meal.  And… how are you?”

      “Rather confused.”

      “Sherlock paid a visit, didn’t he?”

      “Oh, very good.  And quite correct.  Imagine my surprise when I stepped outside for a small breath of fresh air and found my brother cowering in my shrubbery.”

      “THERE WAS NO COWERING!”

      “Be silent, Sherlock.  As I was saying, Sherlock was trembling with mortal terror and now refuses to disclose the reason for his clinging to my hedges much in the manner he clung to Mummy’s skirts when chased by a rather confrontational pigeon when he was seven.”

      “THAT IS A LIE!”

      “Not another word, brother dear.  Have you any information to share, perhaps?  Sherlock became quite sullen when I mentioned your abode as a more hospitable hiding place.”

      “The person you should be talking to, sir, is John.  I think he can make everything clear.”

      “I see.  I suspected something of the sort, however, I did hope to give Sherlock the benefit of the doubt that this was not so ridiculous a matter as a petty domestic squabble.”

      “Petty’s not really the word for it, sir.  Fire might be involved.  And John going homicidal.”

      “Of course.  How silly of me to leap immediately to a somewhat rational explanation.  Thank you, Detective Inspector.  You have been most helpful.”

      “Anytime, sir.  Have a good day.”

      “And you as well.”

And that good day was definitely happening now that there was the luscious purr of a voice in his ear from one _very_ luscious, sexy bastard.  Not that he should be thinking of Mycroft Holmes as sexy since (a) the man was Sherlock’s brother and (b) the man could have him fired, killed, dug up and fired again, but fuck it.  Today was his off day and a body could dream on their off day or this wasn’t the country he grew up in!  Which it _was_ , so he was going to hold onto his dream and keep those sultry sounds in his memory while he watched his boys slaughter that ratty excuse of a squad that… FUCK!  How’d we get behind so fast?  New rule – no daydreaming about naked purring sexy men when there was a team to manage!  And a fresh bottle of lager to drink.  Good lager, good Thai, good sofa… someone should write a poem…

__________

_Ringtone.  Not work.  Is John.  Definitely Not Safe to Answer._

__________

_Ringtone.  Not work.  Is John.  Especially Definitely Not Safe to Answer._

__________

_Ringtone.  Not work.  Is John.  Raging Homicidal Tendency Probably Turning This Direction.  Not Safe to Answer, but Status of Life and Bollocks Severely Threatened._

      “Hello, John. I don’t know.”

      “What are you talking about?  And where were you?”

      “I was avoiding you and whatever you want to know I don’t know so go away and let me watch the match.”

      “You talked to Sherlock, didn’t you, you traitor!”

      “I told him to go home, so if he didn’t, don’t blame me.  He’s probably scared you’re going to make him walk funny, and not in a good way.”

      “He _should_ be scared!”

      “Flames?”

      “Still mocking me.”

      “You have my sympathy.”

      “But I know where the bastard is.”

      “Why does that make me worried?”

      “Because you’re the one who’s probably going to have to bring me in for murder.”

      “Oh joy.  Can you at least do your murdering once the match is over?”

      “I’m going to Mycroft’s right now and if Sherlock has a head by the time your match is over, then something’s gone horribly, horribly wrong and my mission is a failure.”

      “Are you going military?  Don’t disgrace the uniform, John!  It’s bad enough you can’t fit in it anymore!”

      “And you fall nicely into Slot 2 on my list.”

      “It’s not a good list either, is it?”

      “When you least expect it… expect it.”

      “I’ll visit you in the mental hospital, John, don’t worry.”

      “Slot 2, Greg… don’t forget.”

      “Yeah, ok.. goodbye, Steve.”

__________

_Knock at Door.  Not work.  Not John.  Not Sherlock.  Not more Thai.  Maybe Safe to Answer.  Utilize Surveillance Tactics to Make Decision.  Target Acquired.  NOT SAFE NOT SAFE NOT SAFE NOT SAFE NOT SAFE_

      Detective Inspector?  Are you at home?”

No.  Not home.  Not home in crap clothes and not-brushed hair and Thai cartons on the floor with three empty lager bottles…

      “Gregory?”

First name used.  With significant purr.  This was serious.  The Apocalypse had started and he was the last to know.  Nice of Mycroft to stop by and inform him personally.  Should open the door and at least say thanks, so he didn’t die and go to heaven branded as an impolite bastard.

      “Ummmm… hello, Mr. Holmes?  Sorry… I… was caught up in the match and didn’t hear the door.”

      “Perfectly understandable.  Do you mind if I come in?”

      “Have you had your shots?”

      “Pardon?”

Use foot.  Kick head.  Repeat until unconscious and unable to humiliate self further.

      “It’s nothing.  Just being daft.  Please, come in.”

And make sure you… ok, he’s noticing every detail in the flat and… no disinfectant spray is coming out of his pocket.  Or animal traps.  Or a big flaming torch so there can be two flats on fire in London at the moment.

      “What a comfortable space.  Practical, agreeable… quite well suited to its resident.”

Was that a compliment?  No, no it couldn’t be because the Lord High Iron Fist of Great Britain didn’t sprinkle compliments into conversation with lowly coppers who probably looked and smelled like a really disappointing blind date you faked a case of plague to run away from.  Fast.

      “Thank you, sir.  I’m sorry it’s a bit messy but…”

      “Nonsense.  It is precisely what I would expect for a space currently devoted to providing a relaxing and enjoyable environment for a hard-working individual on their day of rest.”

      “Oh… ok.  May I offer you a seat?”

      “Thank you, I would be delighted.”

No, don’t walk towards the stained, lumpy sofa when there are clean… relatively clean… chairs in the kitchen.  Which isn’t littered with take-away containers and a pair of dirty socks.

      “Is there… can I get you anything, sir?”

      “Heavens, no.  I would hate to bother you further.”

Do _not_ do that little bum bounce on the lumpy sofa, Mr. Holmes, because one lonely, barefooted cop is going to start picturing you bum bouncing on something else and that will probably get him put on a hit list when his erection accidentally smacks you in the face from all the way over here.  And there will be _no_ further thinking about said erection and your face because a proper will can’t be written right now, since there’s not one decent pen in the flat and something as important as a will deserves a decent pen.  Which is vaguely erection-shaped, so now we’re right back where we started from…

      “It’s no bother, sir.  Tea, perhaps?”

      “Hmmmm… I shall have one of these, if available.”

Oh, so sorry, sir.  You seem to have mistaken that house-brand crap lager in your hand for your usual Dom Perignon.  Please, allow your willing and eager serving lad to run out and drain his bank account to provide you with what you obviously meant and would look like a 1940’s movie star sipping, while smirking seductively at your adoring manservant over the rim of your glass.

      “Of course, sir.  However, if you…”

      “And a fork, if you would be so kind.”

      “Fork?”

      “Yes.”

Were there signs of brain damage besides hallucinations?  A test to take or something?  Where was John when he needed him!  Oh yes, committing murder…

      “Coming right up.”

One beer and one fork in hand, pirouette while Mycroft isn't looking and get a second beer because alcohol sounded like very good medicine right now for an acute case of hallucination and it wasn’t polite to let a guest drink alone.

      “Here you are, sir.”

      “Thank you.  And I do believe we can dispense with the formalities, don’t you, Gregory?”

And did you just roll your ‘r’ at your host, sir?  Is there a need for another conversation about erections and your face, with the additional prohibition of you making any sounds that would make your host’s spine shiver if you were making them against his heretofore mentioned unmentionable erection?

      “If you like, sir.  I mean… Mycroft.”

      “Ah, very good.  Far more companionable.”

And now you’re… eating the cheaply respectable Thai.  Your tongue is touching food that another, lovelorn tongue touched just a little while ago.  Not in a creepy way that implied licking the contents, but by proxy through the classic food-on-fork-then-fork-in-mouth-and-back-in-carton maneuver, which was perfectly acceptable.

      “Oh my, this is most palatable.  I was, unfortunately, forced to abandon my residence with some haste prior to dinner being prepared.  I am now, however, very pleased with the outcome.”

His Majestic Majesty was gracefully eating take-away and washing it down with beer.  Straight from a bottle.  Would it be inappropriate to just sit there and stare at him for awhile?  Just a half-hour or so of concentrated staring?  That wasn’t weird, right?

      “Abandoned?  Did something happen, si… Mycroft?  I can send a few men over there and…”

      “Oh, it is nothing so dire.  Simply a small incident.  Named John.”

Fuck.

      “How bad was the damage?”

      “To Sherlock?  Mild to moderate.  I am far more concerned about my lovely Victorian bedframe in the second guest bedroom.”

      “What?  Oh… _oh_ …”

      ‘Yes.”

      “Angry hate sex _can_ be hard on the furniture.”

      “And on the tender ears of innocent bystanders.”

      “You have my sympathy.  Is their flat still on fire?”

      “I assume so.  Doctor Watson did not seem as worried about the situation as one might have expected, but I did dispatch an appropriate team of individuals to handle the matter before he and my brother are forced to reside with me permanently.”

      “And Mrs. Hudson.”

      “More reason to act swiftly and decisively.”

None of which was explaining why the most gorgeous man in the world was sitting on his sofa, and acting… like a normal chap and not a gorgeous/elegant/graceful/stimulator-of-every-vestige-of-his-deepest-seated-oral-fixation, perfectly-perfect person.

      “And because we are, shall we say, the de facto support structure for the burgeoning romance of the century, I thought it appropriate to flee here in my hour of need.  Of course, it is only because you kept your door solidly shut to my brother that I was evicted from _my_ home at all.”

Was that an eye twinkle?  And a tongue-peek?  Tongue _and_ twinkle?  At the same time?  Twinkly tongue teasing right here on this sofa?  The cheekiness of which could not go unaddressed.

      “Even child minders get a day to relax now and then.  Let the family deal with the little buggers for an afternoon.”

      “However, Sherlock still holds fast to the hope that his adoption papers lie concealed in some secret drawer in my home and demands periodically I present them and discontinue the charade of our blood ties.”

      “I know a few good forgers.  We could make that happen.”

      “How delightful!  Already my little visit is reaping great benefits.  A fine meal, enjoyable company and the promise of freedom from the tether of the rather surly H.M.S. Whirwind of Chaos.”

Enjoyable company?  Here?  Where?  At _this_ end of the sofa?  That had to be a mistake.  Maybe Mycroft was having his own set of hallucinations.  Not that it was a bad thing, necessarily… it could be a good thing, in fact, provided the Apocalypse _wasn’t_ going on outside, preparing to ruin this unexpected ray of sunshine, and since they were _both_ apparently suffering mental impairment…

      “Always happy to be of service.  If fact, consider that an open invitation… even if Sherlock’s not the reason you need to step out for a bit.”

Ok, that was insanely forward.  Really, stepping right over the line for out-of-bounds.  So why wasn’t he getting that brolly handle right across the skull?  And Mycroft certainly shouldn't be smiling after that clumsy trip right over the you-on-that-side-me-on-this-side line.  Looking more gorgeous than ever. 

      “That is very kind of you, Gregory.  I admit… I had hoped, at some point, we could become better acquainted.  Our paths cross with sufficient frequency that it seemed… prudent to come to know each other better than we do currently.”

      “You did?”

      “Is that a problem?”

Yes, because now he was having to try and hold back the massive grin that wanted to spill out over his face or he’d wind up looking like a lunatic, of which there were already quite enough in his life.  Currently enjoying angry hate sex, as a matter of fact.  Which Mycroft would be fantastic at… or happy fun sex.  That would be alright, too.  Or kinky.  Or anything in between.  He wasn’t picky.

      “No, not at all.  Actually, I think that’s a great idea.”

      “You do?”

      “Yeah, I mean… it makes sense, right?  Meet someone who you get along with, you _should_ want to get to know them better…”

Should he?  This day was already out of control, so why not see how far off course he could take it… and how many other opportunities would he have to get Mycroft, the master of menthol-cool sensuality, alone for a chat?  None, if he ran away like a scared little ninnypants and he was not going to his grave having let some stray pants ninny derail his one chance to actually get a little closer to the feline devil who was still looking at him with those beautiful blue eyes because he actually hadn’t said anything in a few seconds and now looked a bit daft.

      “…maybe spend a little extra time with them, too.”

Thank you for smiling, sir, and letting me know I’m no longer considered a daft twat that gets stuck in the middle of a sentence and needs a boot to the bum to get going again.

      “I find that quite an amenable suggestion.  It is a rare thing that I meet an individual with whom I might share a measure of pleasantly-passed time and already we have a taken a heartening step upon that particular path.”

Was that a yes?  It sounded like one, however, with Mycroft, he could also just have ordered the death of a foreign dictator-general.  But… twinkle.  There was definitely twinkle in his eye and maybe there wouldn’t be quite that much twinkle for an assassination order.  Or maybe there _would_ be.  At the very least, it sounded as if he was going to get the chance learn a little more about this twinkly god on Earth to someday know for certain.

      “Great!  Really… I’m glad.  I’m enjoying this, too.  And look!  Our squad woke up and finally pulled ahead, lazy sods.”

      “Most considerate of them.  And which would be our particular, as you say, squad.”

      “The bastards on the left.”

      “Excellent.  They display such… energizing colors.”

      “Do you know anything at all about football?”

      “One uses one’s foot and a ball is central to the theme.”

      “Sherlock even knows more than that.”

      “Despite his frequent and strident proclamations to the contrary, Sherlock’s mind collects esoterica much as a streetlamp collects moths.”

      “Want to learn?”

      “I believe that would be wise.  I predict we shall enjoy many such occasions and it would behoove me to actually comprehend the root of my enjoyment.”

Many such occasions.  Many.  Not _another_ or _occasionally_ , but many.  Mike Alfa November Yankee.  Time to buy a new sofa.

      “Do not trouble yourself, Gregory.  This one is quite suitable for the time being.”

      “Stop reading my mind.”

      “But I do adore a quality bit of reading.”

      “And you might want to watch it with the compliments… I could get used to them.”

      “Feel free.  I shall simply have to expand my repertoire.”

      “Oh… ok.”

      “Now… oh dear.  I believe we have achieved combat status.”

      “Yes!  Nothing better than a good brawl with my football.”

Well, maybe something.  Or someone.  Who just scooted a little closer after putting down his beer and thinks he wasn’t noticed.  And who might get a proper invitation for an evening out if this evening keeps going along nicely.  Or, who might _give_ a proper invitation for an evening out.  Or in.  Either way was good.  Mycroft had a nice house, so he’d heard.  Probably a brilliant sofa.  In front of a fire.  With a rug in between.  A soft, thick rug…

      “Gregory?  Are you quite alright?  You look a bit feverish.”

Unfair!  No noticing the lusty flushing!

      “I’m fine, just… happy.”

Even more so now that you’re smiling again.

      “Something I am very pleased to hear.  Perhaps we might enjoy an evening now and again in my home, as well, if that suits you.”

And he scores!

      “I’d love to.  By any chance, do you have a fireplace?”

      “Several.  Why do you ask?”

      “No reason.”

Dear Gregory, as if your eyes did not tell the full truth of your licentious ruminations.  Which I heartily support, of course, though that shall remain my secret for the moment.  One must take these things slowly to fully savor the experience… I believe my calendar is free for tomorrow.


End file.
